One remembers the most ridiculous details of sudden catastrophic scenes that, with a swing and a push, hammer one's life into a new direction. So, on that sunny morning in Carden's library, I was hammered.
I was, I remember, at that moment trying to write. I have all my life been trying to write in the odd moments between what is, I believe, of vastly more importance, trying to live.
Just then I was fancying that I could produce a pretty combination of nature and fiction: you know the sort of thing--beavers and otters, cranky heroes who think they should redeem the world, and beautiful trusting young girls. The happy combination has never been brought off yet, and I am most certainly not clever enough to manage it.
I had just written a most moving little description of the Otter's life
